


Portrait

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Worth 1000 words... [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Backstory, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-30 06:50:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10871361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: John spies a portrait of Sherlock from long ago.





	Portrait

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by [this](https://au.pinterest.com/pin/223139356519301475/) image.

“What’s this?” John asked, a smile quirking over his lips. He lifted the heavy silver frame from the side table, tilting it towards the light. It was an image of a much younger Sherlock, his face unlined and calm; his hair was shorter and he looked healthier, John thought. He was looking directly at the camera, dark suit and tie and blank background marking it a formal portrait. Now, John looked at the man in front of him, his partner of many years; easily old enough to be the father of the young boy in this photograph.

“That was taken at my parent’s thirty fifth wedding anniversary.” Sherlock replied. John’s raised eyebrow requested more information, so he sighed dramatically and added, “I’d just started again at university, this time at Mother’s insistence.” John knew that Sherlock had started and not finished two university degrees; the first while he was still a teenager, the second as part of a deal with his mother. He’d lasted the requisite two semesters (clean and sober, though only just), and had celebrated the release of his trust fund by sinking into the filthiest den of inequity he could find to spite her. His naturally addictive personality had made it harder than he had expected to get clean from the newly discovered hard drugs. Only Mycroft’s consistent attention and the eventual realisation that his deductive skills could be put to good use with the consent of Greg Lestrade had given him the motivation he needed to get clean. John’s arrival and the development of their relationship had cemented his sobriety – nothing now would tempt him to risk what he had with John.

“You're a baby,” John murmured, and Sherlock looked over his shoulder, screwing up his nose at the image of himself.

“Doesn’t really look like me.” Sherlock muttered. John stopped him as he turned away, one doctor’s hand raised to the pale jaw. John’s eyes, the blue a little faded now but still sharp, flickered back and forward between the framed image and the man in front of him. He was slimmer, jaw still defined, though the skin was softer and more lined; the dark hair was shot with silver. Sherlock of today was still clean shaven, and his sideburns were a little longer now. That’d happened almost by accident, after Sherlock had grown a full set of mutton chops for a period costume night; he’d shaved them off in stages the following day, showing John each new look until he’d risen from his blogging, stretching up to press his lips against Sherlock’s, shyly asking him to leave the sideburns, ‘just for a little while’.

“Your eyes are different.” John murmured, still making comparisons between the two images. His eyes now showed the fine lines of a man who refuses increasingly necessary glasses, but that wasn’t it. The colour in the photo was the pale green of olive leaves, but he knew that Sherlock’s eyes varied from stormy grey to sky blue to golden, depending on the light and his mood. It wasn’t the colour; it was the _expression_. In this photo he was genuinely relaxed, almost amused. The older Sherlock did not allow expressions to cross his face without careful consideration, and rarely did they reflect his actual emotions. John felt privileged still that he was granted access to see Sherlock without his considerable defences in place; even now, Sherlock habitually erected his walls if John happened to startle him out of a reverie. It was only on his recognition of John that he would unwind, allowing emotion and affection to flicker across his face as it did most other people. This young man, open to the world, spoke of the innocence Sherlock had once borne, however fleetingly.

“That was the end of a particularly happy summer.” Sherlock said, his gaze now on the fireplace. John remained quiet, letting him speak. “My parents had finally agreed to give up their dream of my graduating with honours from Cambridge; I had more or less the freedom to do as I pleased, at least until the university term commenced.” His eyes were far away again, mouth turning up a little at the memories. He spoke of long days outside, examining bee colonies and conducting experiments on the small dead animals he would find on his solo rambles through the woods. His evenings were spent engrossed in one of the many books he would borrow from the library, having hotwired one of his father’s cars when he needed it. John saw the quiet young man, contented with his own company, his mind occupied and full with his own course of study. All this before he’d been forced into the confines of university, then drawn into the underworld of drugs and crime, having to use that razor sharp mind to survive and then to thrive, carving out a place for himself in that world. No wonder he yearned for a quiet place to raise bees in retirement, John thought.

John stared down at this young man again, seeing the happiness, the very beginnings of that piercing gaze, the slightly wonky tie. He wanted to bundle him up and whisper reassurances against the harder years that were ahead, to protect him from what was coming. Unexpectedly, the image wavered a little as tears sprang to his eyes.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice sounded in his ear, and the photo was gently lifted from his hands. John looked up at the older Sherlock, a smile playing over his mouth – the ‘I know what you were thinking’ smile. Sherlock gently thumbed away the tears threatening to fall as he continued, “He’s here, John, and those years changed him, but they made him into the man you fell in love with.” He looked at the image of himself again, then replaced the photo. “This young man wouldn’t have loved you the way I do, John. The hard years were worth it because they brought me to you. I wouldn’t change that for the world.”

 


End file.
